The prickly truth: waxing

Since moving to London I’ve been caught in the throes of a very middle class problem. No, it’s not my inability to stop that leftover avocado from browning, it’s my so far futile quest to find a new beautician.

I lost my hot wax virginity at the tender age of eighteen and I’ve never looked back, just down. Anyone whose ever shared the pleasurable pain of a bikini wax will likely confer that it made them retire the razor for good (excluding those unforeseen eventful Thursday nights).

Such an intimate servicing, I can see why a wax is so daunting to those who are yet to be broken in; I mean, displaying yourself in all your unkempt glory, for a stranger to coat you in an uncomfortably warm substance and pull you about as they so please – it’s not for everyone. But, as I assure all my reluctant friends, they’re professionals and they’ve seen it all before.

However, just like your hairdresser, manicurist or local barista, in order for them to know what you like without saying a word, there needs to a mutual understanding between yourself and your beautician. And how do you achieve this? With a long-term relationship.

I was lucky enough to have had this. We would casually discuss boyfriend woes, recent purchases and baby animals, as she ferociously plucked at me with a pair of tweezers. And then the worst happened; she had a rather unfortunate incident with a pole and I moved to London. The bond was broken.

Since then, I’ve been on a fruitless search to meet The One. Time and time again, I’ve had to go through the awkward rigmarole of trialing new salons, only for them to fall short. It’s a bit like sex – often disappointing and ever shocking when they so casually ask you to turn over (joking, Mum).

With an average price tag of £35, it’s tempting to seek solace in Wahanda’s discounted offers. But from experience, I can tell you that they’re running these promotions for a very good reason – no idiot (except this one) would pay full price for their lax servicing. From the girl that left me hunched over for hours picking leftover electric blue wax from my nether-regions, or the woman who decided that my Hollywood booking was just a light suggestion and that I’d sooner be styled like David Beckham, circa 2000; I implore you to just pay the extra tenner.

Scarred for life by a friend who didn’t just remove hair when attempting a DIY wax, I’ve no other option than to continue my hot and sticky journey.

So here I am once again, legs wide open as a woman leers over my crotch and questions my very distinctive ‘beauty spot’. We make awkward small talk about how long she’s worked at the salon as I wonder how many different vaginas that equates to. And as if being naked from the waist down wasn’t uncomfortable enough, Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s Get It On’ starts to boom from the salon speakers.

I know what you’re thinking, why not laser? Well, not only is it unaffordable for most twenty-somethings in London, you never know when Seventies chic might be gracing our Lady Bits again.

For the sake of my countrymen and anyone frequenting the London Fields lido this summer, my beauty spot and I vow to venture on in the underworld of waxing. If you thought landing a boyfriend was hard, try finding your snatch match…